lies like the ocean
by paintinglies
Summary: two can play at that game. / finnick-centric, with finnick/annie and finnick/johanna friendship.


title: lies like the ocean  
rating: T  
description: finnick-centric with finnick/annie, finnick/johanna friendship.  
summary: two can play at that game.

_a/n: this is just a drabble i decided to spurt out randomnly, and I'm not very fond of the way it turned out, but whatever. i know that nothing is capitalized, but that is the way i decided to stylize it, so please bear with me. if you, for some reason, have a problem reading un-capitalized fanfiction, pm me and we can talk. please review if you enjoyed it, and constructive criticism is always welcome._**  
**

* * *

when finnick odair is reaped at the bare young age of 14, he still doesn't understand. he watches his parents tears instead, the salty drops mimicking the way the fresh salt water would roll down his tanned calves after he swam and he is briefly pained by a premonition that the ocean is a vat of un-shed human tears. yet all too soon, before he can entertain the idea any further, he is whisked away to the Capitol to be pampered and to be fussed over, and to be ultimately killed.

* * *

he, for one, is an exemplary tribute. he listens attentively as analia accius, district 4's escort, spurts the schedule seventeen times in her shrill accent, her voice rising an octave each time they were late. he waves to the capitol citizens exactly how mags told him to, grinning at the grotesque palette of colors that cheered before him. he stands still while his loudmouthed prep team dabs him with various creams and powders, gossiping about the latest rumors and squealing like the fat little children at the marketplace. he allows his stylist to decorate him in polished seashells and intricate mesh not unlike the nets used back at home – and when he thinks of home, his stomach clenches in fear and he rubs the synthetic shells and rope because no matter how fake the items are, it is still a reminder of 4, and he grasps the symbols with a fervent heart.

* * *

"_alliances_," mags whispers, her ancient voice ringing in his ears. "the others will be vicious and it will be easy to break."

* * *

it's ridiculous really, how easy it is for him to kill. when he receives the golden trident in a battered silver parachute he finds it no different from spearing the small kibler fish back at home, how there is no distinguishable attribute from the soft meat of the seafood and human flesh. he pretends to enjoy it, mimicking the whoops of 1 and 2, but he is not like the rest. as he does with the fish, he swoops down and closes their glassy eyes, offering a silent prayer because that is all he can give. he stands up, the golden instrument still sapped with blood, and runs to catch up with the others.

* * *

when finnick odair wins the games at the age of 14, he finally understands. he watches the crowd's blatant approval and admiration for _finnick odair_ the handsome young victor that shone above all. yet all that is reflected in their too shiny eyes is the dirty blood of the inferior staining his hands, the ones who were not worthy. to them, he is no more than the beautiful, ruthless killer he is made out to be. (_but two can play at that game_.) so he plasters on an arrogant smirk and winks at a couple of fawning capitol women, because he would rather suffer at the hands of the capitol than to reveal his real heart.

* * *

he thinks that these parties are a waste of time. as people (victors and capitol elite alike) socialize and laugh he wonders if it has ever occurred to them that they are on opposite sides. he sees good ol' chaff from 11 chatting with alaricus acteon, who had masterminded the torrential rain fire that singed his arm, forcing the capitol to amputate it. he watches kind-hearted riana from 10 listen to sierra livinus who had caused a tree to fall on riana's legs in the last minute of her games, making her virtually immobile.

he doesn't know how they can stand it.

however, that thought is pushed from his mind when mags pulls at his shirt and points to one girl sitting at a table all alone, with a twisted scowl on her face.

johanna mason, the most recent victor of the games.

mags motions for him to greet her, he assumes, so he puts down his drink, and stalks over near her table. the pathetic, sniveling girl from 7 is replaced with a grown, bitter version. or perhaps she had been the grown, bitter version all this time. he doesn't know, but it barely matters, he is only doing this to keep mags content.

"finnick odair, pleased to meet you."

hand in her face, she looks up to meet his dazzling smile and she hesitates before swatting his tanned hand away with a quick flick of her wrist.

"cut the act."

he stands there in awe, feeling peculiarly angry and relieved at the same time. it's strange, not having some silly girl fall to his feet when he opened his mouth. "excuse me?"

"cut. the. _act_." snickering, she adds, "has the ocean water filled your ears with too much salt?" she gives him a jeering smirk and he thinks that it's the first time a stranger has openly mocked him and he's oddly giddy at the fact.

somehow, he knows they'll be friends.

* * *

"i think i've found the one," he says .

johanna promptly snickers and takes another swig from the bottle of red wine.

he pauses, debating on whether he should share his innermost thoughts with someone so abrasive. "she makes me forget."

a silence blanketed the casual mood.

slight seconds later, she laughs (but it tastes too much like sugar to be hers) and stands up, tapping the bottom of the wine bottle to his head. "love doesn't last, odair." she stalks off greet blight and the others and he hears her heavy guffaws over whatever they seemed to be joking about.

(yet secretly he thinks that behind it all is an empty bitterness that no one can fill.)

* * *

her hair. her smile. her eyes. they're all too mesmerizing and deep and so _fucking_ beautiful that he doesn't think he can stand it. even though they both notice that people stare too much and whisper how she's much too skinny for a 15 year old girl; how blue veins pop through her pallid skin because she's sickly, she hardly cares. her laugh spins gold in the air and her eyes sparkle like the ocean, so god damn the world if that sounds cheesy. she loves him for who he is, not the fucked up version the capitol likes, and for a sweet moment he is allowed to forget.

* * *

it wasn't supposed to be like this._  
_

_(she wasn't supposed to be up there with him she was supposed to wait while he left and watched the others die but no no no no no he will not let her die never ever even if it means risking everything.)_

* * *

_it's for her_. he has to remind himself to plaster an arrogant smirk on his face and look like a victor. the capitol women like it rough, moaning in pleasure when bruises flower on their voluptuous bodies, when his manicured nails draw blood down their ivory white skin, when their long necks are wrapped in his strong, able hands.

(of course, it's never enough to kill.)

victors are victors, and he knows the women like to keep it that way. he had won the games, but he has never felt less free.

(sometime, in the dark of the night, he whispers the idea gently in her ear, to flood the arena. wouldn't it be something, he murmurs, to see them creep up on each other and kill?)

* * *

he doesn't get to see her until the medics are through with her. she has won, but she is confined to a room until the doctor presumes she is ready to see him. he hardly cares if the capitol see him now, gasping and crying over the weak victor from 4, the one who was never supposed to win. when she was pulled out of the dense sea and claudius had announced her as the winner, the celebrations were weak, the capitol tight-lipped and confused. but they will go through with it, him and her, with him feeding the answers to caesar's pressing questions and mags encouraging her to wave at the districts with angry hearts.

he doesn't expect the tour to be postponed.

(he sometimes sees her in the room, thrashing, while the capitol doctors hold her down and inject her with some sedative. he sometimes sees her in the room with a blank face, huddled in the back of her bed, rocking back and forth.)

* * *

"_finnick_."

"_annie_."

* * *

the rebellion is somewhat of a rush. he meets the girl on fire and her lover, and he teases her a bit, because her naïve tendencies remind him somewhat of what his lover used to be. he goes back into the quarter quell, manages to make it out alive, only to find that annie has vanished from his grasp again, and the sinking feeling he had felt during her hunger games returns, only this time, he is unable to appease it. instead, his fingers trace over the tough rope, creating and untying knots as he goes, hoping one knot will be the solution to the one nestled in his heart.

* * *

there are no words to describe how he feels when she sees her alive again.

* * *

her back is turned to him when he walks into the solitary room, her gasps barely audible in the heavy silence. he doesn't know if he should do this or not, not when she's so vulnerable and weak. (she hates it, he knows that.) but he knows that this will be the last chance, before he is sent into the mission with katniss everdeen and the others, and he needs to know that everything will be taken care of. (i_n case he dies._)

"johanna." she shifts in her bed, but doesn't meet his eyes. he plants himself down on the chair situated on the bedside nearest to the door. "johanna."

"what." her voice is weathered and dry, as if she hadn't used it in a long time.

he hesitates, and knows that next to annie, he would trust johanna with his life. "take care of her for me."

her laugh comes at somewhat of a surprise. it's more of a cackle, with her voice so low and rugged. "she hates me. "

sighing, he twists the rope band on his ring finger. "she doesn't hate you. she just hates your anger. please, for me, johanna."

there is no answer from her, but he understands her too well that he knows she will do it. somewhere underneath, there is a heart ready to love again.

* * *

(_the mast of his father's fishing boat, a battered looking parachute, mags ancient laughter, the sunset pink sky, his powerful trident, annie in her wedding dress, the foamy waves crashing over rocks._

_this is _him_, he thinks. _

_the last thing he sees is the ocean running down his parents cheeks before the pain tears him apart.)_


End file.
